


Intimacy

by Stormvoël (BushRat8)



Category: Pirates of the Caribbean (Movies)
Genre: Eyes, F/M, Feelings, Hair, Hands, Noses, Observations, Parts of the body, Skin, Touch, Voice, lips
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-09
Updated: 2019-01-02
Packaged: 2019-09-14 22:01:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 4,898
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16921200
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BushRat8/pseuds/Stormvo%C3%ABl
Summary: A series of very short chapters examining what Barbossa and Sophie see and feel when they touch, each focusing on a particular part of the body.





	1. Hands

 

 

  
  
  
  
Barbossa

 

 

 

After a lifetime spent in the kitchen, in scrubbing floors, and in the stirring of a washtub, the innkeeper's hands are scarred by fire and lye and knives, unlike the dainty, do-nothing hands of high-ranking ladies.  They are the hands of a woman who prepares the best food in the world for him;  who gently, thoroughly bathes him when he comes home covered in the ground-in filth of shipboard life;  who lifts fresh sheets and a silken quilt so he might slide into a warm bed beside her, slipping his fingers between hers in the sort of handhold he'd never allow to anyone else.  
  
He knows very well the professional fondling of a whore's pampered hands, fragranced with either fine or cheap perfumes according to her price, and softened by the exotic potions known to those in her trade.  But those hands do not touch his heart, not like _her_ hands, scented with rosemary and made soft by the butter she cooks with;  by the almond oil she smooths through his hair and beard, and the healing salve she so tenderly massages into his skin.  
  
There are so many ways the hands of his lover Sophie touch him, and all of them give the greatest delight, but as of late, he has come most to crave those moments when her hands rest quietly upon his chest, telling him, as he sees in her eyes the glisten of tears, that this gentle, silent caress means her heart is gladdened beyond words that her beloved Hector has come safely home from the sea.

 

 

  
  
Sophie

 

 

  
  
If she wants to be strictly honest, her Captain's hands are thin and spare, with bony fingers and long, broken nails that she's careful to pare for him, both for his own comfort, and for her own, that he will not accidentally cut or slice her soft places as he explores them.  But that presupposes she should find them objectionable, and so such "honesty" is a moot point.  To her, his dirty, battered, thickly-calloused hands are nothing but beautiful because they're _his_ , and she covets the caresses they bestow, just as she covets everything else about him.  
  
She knows every scar on Hector's hands by now — scars from oak splinters, knife fights, rope burns, deep abrasions — and each merits a kiss as she greets him, which makes him smile.  These are hands that an outsider, knowing them only to hold a sword, would never believe are capable of kindness and affection, but she knows it well, for he has never presented them to her in any other way.  He doesn't strike or slap her in anger, the way other men too often treat their women, or use his hands to inflict pain… at least, not unless she winks at him, letting him know that a deliciously stinging handprint on her thigh or backside would give her pleasure.  Of everyone, Sophie is least able to visualize those hands employed in the service of cruelty, for she has never once seen Barbossa in his piratical occupation.  
  
Instead, she enjoys watching his hands as they convey food and drink to his mouth, hold a pipe to his lips, dangle from the edge of the back garden hammock when he's relaxed and half-sleeping, shaded from the afternoon sun.  They're hands that stroke her hair to appreciate its softness before undressing her with nimble fingers, weighing her breasts in his cupped palms as he sighs.  
  
His hands have a distinct voice, telling her of his mood:  needy, grasping, calm, agitated.  She understands every one.  
  
When he unexpectedly appears at Grantham House, Sophie weeps and takes Barbossa's hands into her own, pressing her lips and wet cheek to his sharp knuckles over and over, but although she does it to make him feel good, it's not the only reason;  even more than that, it's her way of signaling, from her heart to his:  _With your arrival, I am once again complete_.

 

 

 

 

 


	2. Lips

 

 

 

Barbossa

 

 

His own lips are uncomfortable most of the time:  dry and salt-caked.  They sting when he sips the wine he takes with his supper, and it's not unusual to wake at dawn to find they've cracked during the night and there's blood on his pillow.  Sophie always sends him to sea with a cake of beeswax to ease the hurt when he melts and applies it to the fragile skin, but he ran out of it weeks ago, and any other oil aboard ship that sufficiently does the job is rancid.  Now he wonders if he'll be in any shape to kiss her when next they see one another, as even the slightest butterfly touch of her mouth might break open the scabs and start him to bleeding again, and he doesn't want to disgust her.  
  
He doesn't realize that Sophie would happily lick every drop of blood away if it would soothe and heal him, for she loves him just that much.

 

  
  
  
Sophie  
  


 

 

She remembers the very first time Hector touched his lips to her own:  smooth and damp and warm in a way she'd never imagined.  "Again?"  she asked, feeling very brazen, but if he thought her so, he did not let her know it.  
  
In a way, Sophie finds his kisses even more intimate than the joining of his body to hers:  the intrusion of his tongue as she battles it with her own, and the warm, musky-salt taste of his mouth that she can't get enough of.  She never knew that lovers did more than peck chastely at each other, but as Barbossa worked her lips apart, she felt a tingling burst of excited heat in her belly instead of fear.  "Mmm, good,"  he whispered.  "Ye taste just as I dreamt ye would, little Dove."  
  
But what she didn't know was that she had more than one pair of lips — the second pair hidden between her legs, waiting for Barbossa to show her what it was like when he kissed them — and when he did the same as he'd done with her mouth, giving her the tip of his tongue…  
  
"Again?"  she gasped.  
  
She melted onto the mattress as she felt his low humming chuckle, thighs clenched against his head so he would keep his lips against hers.  "Again!  Oh God, Hector…!  Again…"

 

 

 

 

 


	3. Hair

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Corvine" — like a raven or crow, particularly in color. Ravens and crows belong to an avian family called corvids.

 

  
  
Barbossa  


 

 

A sailor's hair is not much more than something to keep out of the way when he's at sea, so when Hector leaves home, it's tightly, neatly plaited, with heavy locks at either side of his face because, after studying himself in the mirror, he's decided they make his hat look so much finer.  His linen bandana used to be deep blue, but has faded and grown thin over the years, until now, it's a rather fitting aquamarine (where the color hasn't faded out completely) and so ragged that it's a wonder it doesn't tear with the gentlest breeze.  He could have any number of fine new scarves, but he's fond of this one;  and anyway, like any superstitious sailor, he'd consider it bad luck to replace it.  
  
It's Sophie who brushes and plaits his hair for him, and that, after she's poured pitcher after pitcher of warm, soapy water over his head to remove whatever grease and dirt she can.  He enjoys this washing, especially the feel of her fingers playing over his scalp and chin, working the suds in.  "It tingles,"  he sighs.  
  
"Does it, now?"  she answers just before she braves the splashing water to kiss his cheek.  
  
"Aye, Dove.  More, please;  don't stop."  
  
He's never had anyone groom his hair and beard before, and the touch of his loved one combing and plaiting and caressing it into place is a pleasure he dreams about and sorely misses while at sea.  His beard is a pretty scraggly affair, to be sure, silken in places and prickly in others, but Sophie keeps it neat with a twirl of her fingers to split it into a fork, with a drop of oil to make it shine and soften the skin from which it grows.  "There now,"  she says, giving it a pat.  "Ohh, but you do look fine, my handsome man."  
  
At such moments, he lays aside any thought of acquiring and donning a large, curly Wig of Authority, impressive though it may be, for unlike the hair on his own head, it could never feel Sophie's gentle touch;  never provoke her blushes of approval, nor the compliments that come straight from her heart.

  
  
  
  
Sophie

 

 

In public, her hair is usually tucked up under a cap, because in some ways, she still has proper manners and wouldn't leave it exposed like a woman of ill repute.  Sophie stitches these caps herself, with ribbons to gather them up, and sometimes a bit of lace if she has it.  
  
The hair beneath the cap is wavy and long, just short of her being able to sit on it, corvine-dark and shiny, and the one vanity Sophie indulges in to keep it beautiful is sitting before her mirror slowly brushing it, fifty strokes in the morning and a hundred at night.  It's fashioned into a single long plait, coiled and pinned at the back of her head, but she's always had trouble braiding her own hair, so it ends up loose and messy and liable to fall down halfway through the day.  
  
Sometimes, she puts a cinnamon stick "pin" through the coil, or tucks cloves into it to give it a lovely fragrance.  It's a trick she thought up all by herself when she was but twelve years old, and still doesn't know that Barbossa noticed the scent during his very first visit to the inn when she was serving him at the table.  _Mmmm_ ,  he thought.  _Nice_.  Were she older, it would have aroused him, but that year, it was just a pleasant scent surrounding a pretty child.  Not so during his visit after that, nor all the years after, when the spicy scent of her hair had him licking his lips and wishing to find out what it was like to bury his face into her thick, soft locks.  
  
Women of pleasure flaunt the beauty of their hair to all and sundry, from the lowest, dirtiest deckhand all the way up to captains and governors and lords and beyond;  and, during his travels, Barbossa has known those with hair long and short, black and yellow, brown and red, curly and straight.  But with his demure innkeeper, he comes to understand what an exquisitely intimate pleasure the sight and feel of a woman's hair can be when it's a delight Sophie reserves for the man she loves alone.

 

 

 

 

 


	4. Skin

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Homely" means completely different things in the US and the UK. It means plain or ugly in the US, but in the UK, it means simple, comfortable, unpretentious. Talk about countries separated by a common language! In any case, note that I am using it in the American sense.

 

 

Barbossa

 

 

Sometimes, as he examines the contrast between his red, rough, damaged hands and the velvety skin of Sophie's face or shoulders, or studies their combined reflection in her mirror while she's brushing his hair, he's painfully aware of his own unloveliness.  Vain Barbossa may be, but his vanity doesn't mean he's blind to the truth, and there are days when truth compels him to admit that his heart aches for thinking that perhaps a lovely creature like Sophie deserves someone a little less... the worse for wear... than himself.  He doesn't know what she finds so beautiful when she looks at him, and so must content himself with knowing that beauty _is_ what she sees.  
  
But neither does he realize that he looks at her with that same loving gaze;  one which sees a soft, glowing visage, shapely body, and gentle hands, utterly rejecting the opinions of men who see with greater clarity that the innkeeper of Grantham House is a workworn drudge and, at best, no more than modestly pretty.

 

  
  
  
Sophie

 

 

 

The only way one can describe the skin on Hector Barbossa's face and hands is "leather."  The sun has had its way with it, its rays glaring off the water to broil what was once long ago the pink of a fine English complexion into a ruined oxblood, veined with blue.  But the eyes of Sophie's heart do not see its objective ugliness;  instead, she sees a cheek that needs a kiss pressed to its scarred surface, weather-beaten hands that yearn to touch something soft and yielding instead of wood and rope and metal, and a crinkled neck that begs for nibbles to be applied up and down, starting at the tender spot beneath his ear, hidden from the sun by hair and hat, until she reaches the dip of his throat.  
  
But the rest of Barbossa's body continues to surprise Sophie each time she uncovers it, revealing the delicate skin he was born with, concealed from the elements all these years by the layers of heavy clothing he adamantly refuses to remove, thus preserving it in its pristine, creamy-white state.  His nipples are pink and exquisitely tender, his abdomen smooth under the fur that leads down to his cock, enrobed in the thinnest, most fragile skin on his body, where the merest breath against it makes him moan.  
  
If Barbossa is rough and homely to other women, Sophie doesn't see it;  has never seen it.  Leathery skin and all, she'll never tire of telling him what she's believed since the day she first met him:  that he's the most ravishing man in the world.

 

 

 

 

 


	5. Eyes

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Rather than his eyes being simply rheumy, as they are often described, it is far more likely that Barbossa suffers from recurrent conjunctivitis, an inflammation of the clear membrane (conjunctiva) that covers the white of the eye and lines the inside of the eyelid; also known as pinkeye, for obvious reasons. It can have viral, bacterial, or allergic/irritant causes — constant exposure to salt air and smoke doesn't help — with the viral and bacterial varieties being highly infectious and spreading like wildfire throughout the crew. It's very itchy and uncomfortable. It does clear up without treatment, but the crowded conditions aboard ship would predispose Barbossa — and all his men — to contracting it again and again.

 

 

 

Barbossa  
  
  
  


 

 

_They be hidin' a secret,_   he laughed to himself the first time he looked into the black eyes of Grantham House's little serving maid.  _Good or bad, I'm not knowin', but 'tis there;  I see it._   Dark eyes have always fascinated Barbossa precisely because they're mysterious and not easy to read.    
  
The veiled black of his sweetheart's eyes still bewitches him, although now he knows her well enough that the curtain shading her thoughts is often lifted.  There's a softness in her gaze as though she's perpetually on the edge of tears;  not of pain or unhappiness, but of delighted welcome and a whole lot of relief that he's safely home in her arms.  In all the world, in all his life, Barbossa has never encountered such a lovely expression in the eyes of a woman;  one which brings him so close to blurting out the words,  "I love you" each time he sees it that he can scarcely control himself.  "So glad t' be home,"  is what he says instead as he embraces her, his head on her shoulder to hide the tears in his own eyes.  
  
He still wonders sometimes, though, what the maiden Sophie's dark-eyed secret was, not knowing that the only one they ever held was how her heart broke every time he went away, and how enchanting she found him, even when she was a girl.    
  
  


  
  
  
  
Sophie  
  
  
  
  


 

Blue eyes.  Sea blue, sky blue.  They change in the light, taking on a faint, clear tinge of green now and again, and even after all these years, their beauty makes her breathless.  
  
The whites of Barbossa's eyes have yellowed with the ravages of malaria, and are almost always reddened with irritation, but Sophie sees only the blue.  Any discomfort he complains of is an excellent excuse to cosset him;  to lay across his eyes a cool, soothing wet cloth as he relaxes in bed or on the settee, sitting beside him and whispering in his ear,  "Rest and feel better, my beautiful blue-eyed man."  
  
Blue.  She sees his eyes in everything blue on her island:  tiny flowers, glistening fish scales, the tropical ocean and the sky above, the blue velvet gown he gave her;  and, at twilight, the rocks strewn about near the well take on a violet-blue hue.  
  
She dreams in blue:  Hector's sparkling, almost tearful blue eyes just inches above hers as he makes love to her;  their sleepy blue when he wakes the next morning, crinkly crow's feet appearing at the corners with his smile.  "Mornin', Dove,"  he murmurs.  "So tell me:  did I give ye a fine sleep last night?"  
  
"Mmmmm."  Sophie presses against him, running one hand down his back under the covers, remembrance of their intimate congress making her blush.  "And you?"  
  
"Ne'er better, sweet.  Ne'er better."  
  
Nothing else need be said when both black eyes and blue so clearly speak their feelings:  _You are everything to me and I love you._

 

 

 

 

 


	6. Noses

 

 

 

 

Barbossa  
  
  
  
  


 

Dear God, but Barbossa hates his nose.  His sisters got delicate things from his mother, but somehow, his got all the size theirs didn't.  It wasn't so bad when he was little, but then it began to inflate;  it burned in the sun and got even bigger, with an awkward bulbous tip by the time he was grown.  Thankfully, it's not afflicted with pockmarks, but its greasy, battered skin looks nearly as bad.  
  
He doesn't know why Sophie is so fond of rubbing her dainty little nose against his;  of pressing kisses to the bridge of it.  He only knows that it feel delightful, so he'll not complain.  
  
  


 

  
  
Sophie  
  


 

 

 

Dear God, but she loves Hector's big nose.  It feels warm and friendly against her neck;  makes her tingle when he presses it between her breasts, against the small of her back, or into her navel;  gives her the shivers all over when he nuzzles it between her legs as he breathes her in.  
  
She's aware that he's not fond of it, but won't have him thinking less of himself than she does, so she does everything she can to let him know that she loves his nose just as much as she loves the rest of him.

 

 

 

 

 


	7. Voices

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> While not technically a part of the body, the voice is closely connected with it, and its sound affects, for good or ill, the one who hears it.

 

 

Barbossa

 

 

 

His is a bellowing voice made for issuing orders, for cutting through battle and storm, and no man ever has the excuse to say that he didn't hear it.  He's so used to hearing that voice of command in his own head that he sometimes doesn't realize how tender it can be when he wishes with all his heart to speak gently;  to whisper;  to purr.  
  
When one-eyed Ragetti told him "You didn't say it right.  You have to say it right," admonishing him that he hadn't spoken like a lover the incantation that would release Calypso into her ocean realm, what the thin man didn't know was that Barbossa couldn't gentle his voice with Tia Dalma no matter how hard he tried.  At that, he couldn't have done it with beautiful Elizabeth Swann, either.  Only one woman was ever meant to hear him speak that way, and he remembers the last time he saw her;  recalls her shy smile when he told her how lovely she was and wouldn't she please stay with him?  All these years he's dreamt of how, once released from the curse and his obligation to the sea goddess, he'd walk through her door, take her into his arms, and murmur in her ear as the lover — _her_ lover — he's so desperately wanted to be.     
  
Ragetti is wrong:  Barbossa _can_ speak like a lover.  But to truly speak as one means his words must be heard by Sophia, the woman he prays still desires to hear his rough voice;  whom he hopes will receive with gladness all the soft words his whole being is hungry to say.

 

  
  
  
Sophie

 

 

 

Unlike others, she has never thought Hector's voice rough or snarly;  to Sophie, there's a certain cheerfulness in it that tells her he's very happy to be back at the inn.  In the early years of their acquaintance, he always inquired after her well-being and thanked her when she served him at table;  said how pleasing it was to find his room freshly aired and neatly made up, and her labor in making it so was most appreciated.  She was shy, then, and didn't speak often, but when she did, it was with a smile he would long remember during dark, lonely nights at sea.  
  
They're no longer lodger and maid now, but lovers of long standing, and her voice is something that never fails to touch Barbossa's heart:  a low alto that laughs with him, sings to him, cries out for comfort from him when she's overworked or ill or starved for his attention.  He especially loves the way Sophie giggles and sighs when he holds her, catching her breath when he touches her just the right way.  "I e'er tell ye how very fine ye sound when ye sing out in yer passion, Dove?"  he whispers shakily, his hands twisting into her sweaty hair in the instant before a long groan escapes him and he loses the ability to speak at all.  
  
It's at moments like these when her contralto rises up to become a searing soprano, wordlessly spilling out pleasure and love, her cries beseeching him never to leave her.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 


	8. Outside

 

 

 

Barbossa

 

 

While he's not fond of his slender physique, Barbossa is exceedingly proud of the manly endowments that nature has seen fit to bless him with.  Rather larger than most, although not preposterously so, with a handsome pair of fur-covered balls he enjoys weighing in his hand on those nights when he's indulging in solo pleasure, he sometimes smiles to himself, remembering how Sophie's eyes widened the first time she saw his equipage in the light.  "Felt good when it were inside ye last night, did it not?"  he murmured in her ear.  "No need t' be afeared of it now."  
  
"I'm… not afraid."  
  
He heard her hesitation and took her hand.  "Naught t' be afeared of,"  he repeated, smoothing her fingers over his delicate foreskin and gliding it back, with a grin at her surprise when his cock quickly sprang up.  "'Tis how men are made, Dove, an' women are meant t' receive it inside."  
  
Sophie's smile turned saucy as her cheeks flamed rosy pink.  "I know."  Then she did something he'd never expected;  that he thought he would teach her later, when he deemed her over her virgin fears and ready to learn.  
  
She turned and leaned over, giving his cock a lingering kiss, first at its root, then on the shaft, and finally on the head, leaving her lips wet with the slippery droplet seeping from its eye.  "He's beautiful,"  she said softly, looking up.  
  
Barbossa swallowed, feeling himself go breathless and weak as he gripped her by the hair and began to pant in anticipation.  "Th' hidden deep of yer belly bain't th' only place where ye were meant t' receive me, darlin',"  he told her.  "Now open yer mouth…"

 

  
  
  
Sophie

 

 

 

As a girl, she never made a habit of looking at her body.  Her Nan brought her up to be modest, covered always by at least a chemise, and what point would there be in looking at herself, anyway?  
  
But once Sophie approached her teens and felt her body changing, she found herself interested in the woman she was becoming.  Soft, dark hair grew where she'd never had it before — straight and wispy under her arms, luxuriantly curling at the juncture of her legs — blood spotted her thighs as her courses sporadically started, and on the day she realized she had real breasts, she did the unthinkable, lifting her chemise and putting both hands on them, squeezing the newly-rounded flesh and rolling her nipples between her fingers.  It felt so _good_ , and she inexplicably found herself wanting to touch another part of herself that was aching and throbbing and… ohhh, it was so _wet_ …  
  
Then she yanked her chemise down, feeling embarrassed and sinful, not least because later that very day, a lodger displayed himself to her;  and although she'd accidentally seen unclothed tenants before — and she certainly didn't want _him!_ — this time she suddenly, truly knew that there was meant to be some sort of connection between her body and a man's.  
  
She resolved not to repeat her sinfulness and for a time was successful, but she never bargained on Captain Hector Barbossa's arrival.  That first year, he was so kind to her, but even she knew she was too much of a child to hold his interest, but during the years after that…  
  
She has never confessed to Barbossa that every time, as a maiden, she caressed her own body and tried to relieve the quivering ache in the dark by herself, she was thinking of him.

 

 

 

 

 


	9. Inside

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In case you were wondering where the Explicit rating came from… ;-)

 

 

 

Barbossa

 

 

 

 

Every time he enters Sophie to join his body to hers, he does it with a sort of reverence for the dark, mysterious place inside her that he cannot see.  He knows that she feels divine within — she's wet, she's hot, she's oh-so-smooth — but just what makes her that way is something he's ignorant of, and, deep down, just a little fearful.      
  
Fearful because he's slipping his pride into what is essentially an unknown void, surrendering his ability to keep an eye on such an important part of himself, with no real knowledge of what's inside her or taking place, and that can be frightening to a man like Barbossa, who has a need always to be in control.  
  
He's learned as much about Sophie's deep places as he ever will, having buried fingers and lips and nose and tongue into them, that he might discover how tender and sensitive she is and the ways in which he might best give her pleasure.  A fingertip finds a smooth, unexpected dimple far up inside her;  a dimple that his quick-witted side tells him is likely the door to her womb.  _Wish I could put th' tip of m' tongue there an' taste it,_   he thinks, his head reeling.  _Wish it were long enough!_   But alas, it's not, so Barbossa must content himself with continuing to seek out this intriguing part of her with his fingers.      
  
But not everything is hidden, not completely, and he still remembers how, during their first night, he made the acquaintance of the pink, pearly treasure peeking out from under a curving fold of exquisitely soft skin.  It was moist and so inviting, and Sophie cried out in a thrill too much to bear, nearly tearing the sheets between her grasping fingers when he kissed it, then began to lick and lightly suck, his breath warm on this most intimate part of her that even she had never seen.  Since then, he's brought her to climax with his mouth countless times, delighting in the way her body shudders in response and the resulting wash of sweetness flowing onto his tongue, more intoxicating than any liquor.    
  
Sometimes, when she's on her hands and knees as he kneels behind her, he probes hard with his fingers under her belly, feeling himself moving within her body:  his cock sliding along just below the skin of her abdomen, a sword of pleasure sheathed in an invisible scabbard.  Or she'll sit astride him and lean back just so, bearing down as he thrusts, showing a hint of the head of his organ as it moves in and out, in and out, and that's when he most wishes he could see as well as feel his moment of crisis, to watch the smooth white seed as it spills out from his body and floods deep into hers.  
  
Barbossa loves to ravish Sophie in these positions, which allow him the exciting sight of a few wet inches of himself before he disappears into her depths again.  It reassures him that, although he cannot otherwise observe what's happening, he's still there and all of a piece, giving both of them every delight of which he's capable.    
  
But oh, how Barbossa wishes he could _see_ what he feels inside her;  to solve once and for all the mystery of how his Sophia is formed.         

 

 

  
  
  
Sophie

 

 

 

Until she gifted her virginity to Hector, she really never had an idea of how her body was made where she couldn't see it.  She knew that her courses arrived each month and were a bother, and she learned through the years that touching herself on the outside gave her delightful sensations in the inside, but she never knew exactly why.  
  
That all changed when Barbossa slipped into her bed and showed her — _really_ showed her — what it meant to be joined with a man.  
  
The darkness shielded him from her sight, but what it felt like when he pushed her thighs apart and slowly worked his manly organ into her body… that sensation will remain with her for the rest of her life.  She'd never felt anything like it:  something so large demanding entrance, but not invading;  not when she wanted him so much.  
  
She wept… but she didn't;  fought him… but not.  For an instant, there was a sharp pain as he broke through her maidenhead, but that brief burst of agony was the most sublime sensation she'd ever felt.  She was filled with him, overflowing with him, everything inside her greedy for more.  
  
He was careful at first — or as careful as he was able, being so nearly out of control — that he wouldn't pain her further until she grew more accustomed to the hard, swelling column of flesh inside her.  "Feel that, sweet?"  Barbossa gasped, digging in and holding still.  "E'er since I were last here… I dreamt of ye… how warm ye'd be… how soft an' wet… how ye'd hold me close an' open yerself up t' me…"  
  
Remembering all those painfully lonely years between then and now, Sophie cried out his name again and again and tightened her arms and legs around him;  and, as he lost himself inside her, so she lost herself inside him.

 

  
  
-oOo-  FIN  -oOo-

 

 

 

 


End file.
